


But The Fear Will Stay Behind

by pipdepop



Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: Angst, Arthur falls asleep on people, Fluff, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, I may as well make it a tag at this point, child abuse (flashback), literally just self-indulgent fluff, pre-game, two cowboy dads comfort their unruly son
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-22
Updated: 2020-01-22
Packaged: 2021-02-27 16:08:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,694
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22360006
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pipdepop/pseuds/pipdepop
Summary: On his ninth birthday, Arthur makes a wish.
Relationships: Arthur Morgan & Lyle Morgan, Hosea Matthews & Arthur Morgan & Dutch van der Linde
Comments: 25
Kudos: 172





	But The Fear Will Stay Behind

**Author's Note:**

> Me: Hey wouldn’t it be heartbreaking if little Arthur celebrated his birthday with a drawn-in-the-dirt birthday cake, HP style?
> 
> Also me: Sure. But you know what would be even _more_ heartbreaking?
> 
> (CW for brief depiction of physical + mental child abuse. Title is from ‘We Can Find A Place’ by Davis John Patton.)

Arthur carefully lays out the little bits of twig in the circle of dirt. Eyes them critically for a moment, then rearranges them, putting them in a neat grid of three by three instead of around the edges – it looks better, seeing as his circle isn’t exactly perfect. And it’ll be easier to blow them out this way too. 

He gets his tinder, and the other stick that he’s frayed a little at the ends to use as a taper, and strikes the flint just like his pa taught him. It takes him a few tries, but eventually he gets his little ball of lichen and wood shavings lit, uses that to light the taper. Then he carefully lights all nine of his ‘candles’.

This is what you’re meant to do on birthdays, apparently. He’d seen it in a town they were in a few weeks ago – a girl having a birthday party in the park. He’s always known that other kids did something with cake and candles on their birthdays, but he didn’t really get it until now. You have a cake, and on the cake is the same number of candles as how old you are, and you have to blow them out and make a wish – the birthday girl herself had explained it to him, had seen him watching and invited him to have some of her cake. All the adults tutted and tittered and looked at him like he was something unpleasant they’d found on the bottom of their shoe, but that was okay – Arthur’s used to that by now. And besides, the cake was _really_ tasty.

Today it’s Arthur’s ninth birthday – he’d checked the date with the newspaper boy they’d passed in the morning. And he figured, why not try it? He doesn’t have a cake, or proper candles, but apparently ‘it’s the thought that counts’, so he does his best, and then takes a deep breath and blows out all the candles and makes his wish. He has to extinguish a few of them with his fingers in the end, but he’s sure it still counts.

He’s so preoccupied with making sure they’re all snuffed out properly, he doesn’t notice the footsteps stomping towards him until it’s too late.

“WHAT THE _FUCK_ DO YOU THINK YOU’RE DOING?!”

He recoils, but he’s not quick enough – Pa grabs him by the scruff of his shirt, hauling him up to his face, and he’s got some of Arthur’s hair in his grip too and it’s pulling and it hurts. His pa looks _really_ angry, snarling like a dog. His breath smells like whiskey even more than usual. So it’s going to be a bad night.

“I’m- I’m sorry, I was just-”

“Are you _trying_ to get me killed boy? Is that it? Wanna off your old man?!” He shakes Arthur and it tugs some of his hair out, and Arthur does his best not to cry out, because he knows that’ll only make him angrier.

“No, no, I was just blowing out my birthday candles, I didn’t mean to-”

_“Birthday candles?_ The hell are you on about?”

“It’s- it’s my birthday. And... and on your birthday, you’re meant to have a birthday cake with candles, and you blow them out and-”

His pa looks even more furious, so he tries a different way.

“I used a flint and steel, Pa – just like you taught me!” 

“Just like I taught you, eh? Just like I goddamn taught you? Taught you to go ‘round settin’ up lights to let every lawman in a mile know I’m here did I?!”

“No, no, I didn’t mean to- I’m sorry, I didn’t think-”

“You stupid _brat!”_

The first blow is to his ribs, so it’s not so bad.

“I have _every_ sheriff, deputy and wannabe bounty hunter in this miserable state after my head, and you go around making lights? You wanna bring all those bastards to camp huh?!”

“No, no, I’m sorry, I’ll be good, I promise-”

“You didn’t _think_ for even a second, did you? Selfish, stupid little brat!”

The second punch lands in the same place, but it stings more. Arthur holds back another whimper, because he knows his pa hates it when he’s a crybaby. But now he’s worried – what if someone _did_ see his birthday cake? What if they get caught, and _hanged,_ and it’s all his fault because he wanted a stupid birthday wish which wouldn’t come true anyway?

“But, but Pa...” he whispers, “if the bounty hunters are around here, shouldn’t you keep your voice down?”

He should’ve known better. Of _course_ he should have known better, he’s so stupid. But just in case he wasn’t sure, the look on his pa’s face tells him it’s _absolutely_ the wrong thing to say. Pa’s face twists into something horrible, and he gives a wordless snarl of rage – then pain explodes from the side of Arthur’s head and everything goes black.

* * *

Arthur sits up with a gasp, raising one arm to protect himself instinctively, and can only blink in confusion for a few moments at the canvas he can see in front of him. There’s a fire outside it, he thinks – can see the warm orange glow through the fabric. But that means the lawmen will find them. Had one of his candles not been put out properly? Has it set fire to something else? He starts, hands flying to the blankets over him (and when did they get there?), he has to put out that fire – but a hand on his shoulder holds him back.

“Arthur.”

He whips around, breath catching in his throat. But the grip on his shoulder is gentle. And when he looks up, his eyes meet warm hazel, not flint grey. 

The world clicks back into place, and the breath escapes him in a rush.

Hosea says nothing for a while, just gently rubs his thumb along Arthur’s shoulder while he gets his racing heart back under control. When he finally looks back up at him, his expression is kind, but worried.

“That’s the third one tonight,” he murmurs, hand going to rub circles across Arthur’s shoulder blades. Arthur can only grunt in affirmation, scrubbing at his face with his hands. 

He’s not sure what’s set the nightmares off. This has happened before, sure, but it’s never been this bad. This is the... fourth night, now? Fifth? He’s lost track. Hosea offered to sit with him tonight, see if that helped. It didn’t – well, it didn’t stop the nightmares. But Arthur, dumb lunk that he is, can’t even begin put into words how grateful he is, how comforting it is to wake up to Hosea being there. 

But it’s ridiculous. He’s nearly twenty-one, dammit. He’s too old for nightmares.

“Was it the same as a dream you’ve had before?” Hosea asks gently. Arthur lets his hands drop into his lap, hanging his head.

“Naw. Well, not... not really. Different setting. Same...”

“Subject matter?”

“Mm.”

Hosea’s other hand is gripping his arm lightly, while the one on his shoulders comes up to knead at the muscles at the base of his neck. It feels nice, and Arthur can feel his own head drooping lower and lower, eyes slipping closed. But he blinks them open again with an annoyed huff. What’s the point if he’s just going to wake up screaming again in another hour or so? He half-considers digging out a bottle of whiskey – perhaps if he drinks enough he’ll at least pass out for longer than an hour. But the thought of them being caught unawares, the thought of being too drunk to defend his family, these people he owes everything to, sends his stomach churning. 

Besides, past experience has taught him that booze just adds to the exhausted ache behind his eyes.

“Please let me make you some of that tea, Arthur.”

Sometimes he thinks Hosea can read minds.

“We already talked about this...” Arthur mumbles.

“And yet, I still don’t understand why...”

“Because what if something happens?!” Arthur sits up, gives Hosea the best glare he can manage – which is probably pretty pathetic right now, since he knows his eyes must be bloodshot and puffy with exhaustion. “What if something happens, and I’m too out of it to stop it?”

“Arthur. Are you saying you’re the only person here who knows how to shoot a gun?”

“No, no of course not, just-”

“We’re all grown adults, Arthur. Dutch and I took care of ourselves long before we met you – and you forget we took care of you for years as well, before you decided you were the official camp guard. And woe betide anyone who tries to cross Susan.” Hosea gives him a wry smile, but his tone is fond. “Besides, I keep telling you. It’s not a sedative – if a swarm of angry grizzly bears comes charging in here, or whatever it is you’re worried about, you’ll still be able to aim a rifle. It’ll just help... take the edge off. Help you sleep better. And all without a hangover in the morning! I should be patenting the stuff.” 

As he rambles on about their untapped source of income, his hand slides up Arthur’s neck to card through his hair, and Arthur can’t help but lean in to the touch, eyeing Hosea through drooping eyelids.

“...Okay,” he finally agrees – if only because he doesn’t think he can last another night with almost no sleep. Hosea gives his shoulder a squeeze and slips out of the tent.

But it _is_ ridiculous. The man’s been dead near on a decade. And, looking back now, he wasn’t even all that scary. Sure, he loomed over Arthur when he was a child (though he wonders how much of that was a genuine difference in height, and how much is his own imagination making his father seem so large and menacing). But looking at the old mugshot of him, remembering how the man struggled to heft the saddle onto whatever stolen horse they had at the time... Lyle Morgan was small. Weedy. Weak. And while he’d painted himself as a big bad outlaw, wanted across the country, he was little more than a petty thief – a two-bit criminal bored deputies occasionally had a crack at when things were quiet. Hell, he never even had his own proper wanted poster. If he hadn’t robbed that businessman, they probably never would have bothered with hunting down and hanging him – his bounty was never high enough to justify the paperwork. In the past four years, since Dutch and Hosea started taking him out on jobs proper, Arthur’s done far more to bring the law down on him than his father ever managed in his whole life, at least to Arthur’s knowledge (though he doubts his pa ever led some secret, high-stakes criminal life – the man was selfish, arrogant, liked to boast about every feat he accomplished, no matter how insignificant). 

In the end, that’s all Lyle Morgan ever was to the world – insignificant. Inconsequential. Forgettable.

And yet, Arthur wonders if there will ever be a time in his life when he is not afraid of a spectre in a dark gambler’s hat. It’s why he still wears it – to remind himself, to keep himself from slipping too far. Because heaven forbid he ever look into a mirror one day and see his father staring back at him. But he isn’t like his father. He returns what was stolen in the first place – steals from those who hoard their wealth at the expense of honest, hardworking people. Sure, he’s a criminal; but so were most fighters for freedom throughout history. He lives this life because he believes, he _knows_ that Dutch’s vision of a fairer, freer world is worth fighting for, no matter the danger, no matter what terrible things they accuse him of on the wanted posters.

He isn’t like his father. He isn’t.

That train of thought is thankfully interrupted as Hosea returns, a steaming mug in his hands.

“There you are. Put lots of honey in it for you,” he declares, handing it over. Arthur eyes it dubiously – but at Hosea’s encouraging nod, rolls his eyes and takes a sip. It’s... not bad, actually. Sweet from the honey, but also sort of... flower-y tasting. He finishes it, lets Hosea take the cup and put it aside. 

“Come on. Lie back down...”

He’s also far too old to be tucked into his bedroll, but he appreciates it anyway – appreciates the hand Hosea leaves on his shoulder, thumb rubbing idly. Shuts his eyes with a sigh, starts to drift...

Heavy footsteps, whiskey breath, eyes that are bloodshot and wild and so, _so_ angry...

He wakes up again with a jolt, can only cover his eyes with a hand as Hosea pets and shushes him. Lets out a groan of frustration that’s dangerously close to a whimper.

“So much for taking the edge off...” he grumbles.

“It’s only been ten minutes, kid. Give it some time to work.”

“Not a kid,” Arthur grouses out of habit. Sure feels like one right now though. Especially as, peeking through his fingers, he sees Hosea shake his head and straighten up. Tugs off his boots, starts unbuttoning his vest. He catches him watching and smiles.

“Desperate times, desperate measures,” he explains, loosening his suspenders then slipping under the blanket. “C’mere, kid,” he murmurs, and Arthur, damn him, can’t help but sigh as Hosea tucks them up together, Arthur’s head resting on his chest. And maybe whatever’s in the tea is starting to take effect – the tight, anxious feeling in his own chest subsiding, his whirling thoughts starting to settle. Or maybe it’s because there’s warm cotton under his cheek, with a heartbeat beneath – nothing that could be confused with cold damp dirt, even in sleep. 

He’s far too old for this.

But as gentle fingers card through his hair, he can’t help but nuzzle at the softness of Hosea’s shirt, eyes slipping closed.

* * *

He wakes to pale, early morning light. Wakes to Dutch’s voice, low and rich and soothing, quietly talking with Hosea – equally soft and comforting, arms warm, grounding weights on his back. He’s not awake enough to make out their words – just listens to their voices and lets himself drift. The fears of the night seem so far away now. Lyle Morgan, alive or dead, can’t get to him here.

Dutch must’ve noticed he’s awake, because he feels a third hand start stroking through his hair once again.

“Sorry, son. Go back to sleep.”

So he dozes – reluctant to let himself fall asleep fully, wanting to listen to their voices wash over him some more. Eventually, Hosea says something to Dutch, and there’s rustling and then Dutch is slipping under the blankets on his other side, arm settling over both him and Hosea. And they haven’t done this in years; gone are the days when waking up screaming was a near-nightly occurrence. Gone are the days when Dutch and Hosea would take turns curling around him to keep the nightmares at bay. Gone are the days when Arthur could lie with his head on Dutch’s shoulder while his feet barely reached his knees. Gone are the days when he could sprawl across Hosea’s chest with room to spare. 

And yet he feels so very small.

“Good thing we didn’t get you that cot after all. We wouldn’t all fit.”

“We’ll get you one for your birthday,” Hosea promises, stroking hair off Arthur’s forehead.

“Twenty one. Can’t believe it. Our boy’s going to be a man.”

Arthur mumbles in protest, something like ‘not a boy’, feels warm lips on his temple.

“Go back to sleep, son.” Dutch murmurs again, pressing close. And he’s far, _far_ too old for this, but his sleepy brain can’t think of any other times in his life when he’s felt so _safe,_ as he does pressed snugly between his two fathers.

The thought catches, and he smiles.

“My wish...” he mumbles.

“Hmm?”

“My b’thday. Years ‘go. Wished f’r a better pa.”

“Did it come true?”

“No.” 

He snuggles in between them, sighing.

“Didn’ get a better one. Got two.”

**Author's Note:**

> Me: While it’s stated multiple times in-game that Dutch and Hosea raised Arthur, they didn’t meet him until he was a teenager, and given their tough lifestyles and attitudes + their gender and the time period in general, physical displays of affection between them were probably rare and minor, especially as Arthur got older.
> 
> Also me: *slams fist on table* CUDDLES FOR EVERYBODY
> 
> (i.e. I wanted some tooth-rotting fluff then realised I could just write my own. As always, thanks for reading, and don’t forget to floss <3)


End file.
